


The Fire And Blood Of Memory Were Swiftly Stoked

by calliopes_pen



Category: Dark Shadows (1966), Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Bonding Over Strange Lives, Gen, Supernatural Elements, Temporary Mental Collapse After Harrowing Events, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 00:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14705549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calliopes_pen/pseuds/calliopes_pen
Summary: Shortly after Jonathan escaped from the castle, as his mind collapsed, he wandered into a bar and obtained assistance from a stranger in reaching the train station to Bucharest; years later, he meets the stranger again.  Quentin Collins and Jonathan Harker exchange tales of the events that make up their strange lives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to merely be Jonathan and Quentin bumping into each other in a bar; it grew into Quentin being pivotal in Jonathan's survival.

Imaginary blood dripped from red lips, and splashed onto the cobblestone below. Demons paid the loss no mind as they crept through the foliage and pranced and sang of their desires for human flesh and blood. 

Jonathan could still see the grisly image of a child flung to demonic women that was burned into his mind, whenever he closed his eyes; therefore, he had yet to sleep since his escape, for he feared his cries would only lead them closer.

And those that slept, they dreamed of ill, he frantically surmised. Must they not, in this land? Jonathan wondered in exhaustion. How could they ever get any rest in this place? Why didn’t they proclaim the word from every rooftop?

They had, though. He hadn’t listened due to an outsider’s ignorance, and now he couldn’t think or do anything but wander through the forest, desperate for a way out. “Please don’t let them find me,” he whispered over and over again.

Jonathan fell to the ground and shuddered; he couldn’t keep going, but he must. If he stopped something or someone would eat him! He could hear voices drifting through his thoughts, but didn’t know the origin; not at first. It seemed as though they were everywhere and nowhere, jeering and cajoling him. They were outside in every corner of the forest, and in his memories and more. 

The voices were begging and enticing and threatening all at the same time.

To Jonathan’s eyes, the shadows were a living thing. They stretched and twisted through the leaf-covered branches, causing his already frenzied state of mind to flow ever further over the precipice and into the grips of full blown hysteria. 

Anything could appear and drag him away. Wolves could tear him limb from limb. Those women probably knew this forest better than he did. This was their hunting ground, and he was merely a lamb thrown to them for a sacrifice! They _would_ locate him, if they hadn’t already. He supposed they had, though. It was merely through a mental connection at this juncture.

His head throbbed; he tried to take calming breaths, only to jump in terror at every sound. Hunger; thirst; exhaustion; constant numbing horror. These things presently ruled his mind, and dulled his wits. There was only suffering at night; there was no solace to be found, so he had to trudge onwards. Even if he had made a haphazard bed of twigs and leaves once, and lost a full day to some sort of stupor, he didn’t belong in this region at night. 

His screaming nightmares made him realize he would only make it easier to find him if he slept. He shouldn’t close his eyes. Maybe they were watching him right now. Maybe they laughed at how funny it was that he was lost. Maybe he was influenced to go in ever twisting circles, just to wear himself out!

Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it was his fault for not keeping track of the way of things, but it all looked the same wherever he turned. 

He noticed all around him was dirt when he fell to the ground again, but not from the normal forest floor. It was a trail! He almost hadn’t dared to hope he would find one! There were the tracks of a carriage. For a fleeting instant, as terror continued flooding through his heart, he truly believed the Count’s carriage was searching for him. Then, he knew it was foolish, and held himself. If he followed the tracks, and kept his eyes down and on the path…maybe home was somewhere beyond, if he could just keep his mind focused.

Silently, for a time that he could never recall the duration of, he wept with relief. When he finally began to reclaim the strength to stand with the aid of a nearby tree, he began to make a stumbling but steady progress.

Well, then, he concluded. He would either be overtaken and gain a ride or be run down by a passing carriage based on the trail, or he would find a place of business and gain aid. Anything was better than this. Either way, civilization was imminent! He frantically checked his pockets, and dropped to his haunches as he counted the coins. Yes, most of them were still there. He had only lost a few scaling the castle.

He had not lost his journal, though he had been tempted to burn it several times. It was not his own impulse, though the thought that a fire would enable him to be found by good people was prevalent for a time.

But no! Surely, everyone was in league with the Count, no matter how kindly they would look. He couldn’t go inside any house! However, he was without shoes; he was filthy, and knew something was wrong with him. He couldn’t hold it back anymore. His throat was parched; he knew if he tried to speak immediately, it would only come out as a hoarse scream that he couldn’t stop. It was bubbling up inside and itching to be released.

He didn’t dare. He feared if he relented, he would never stop.

He needed a train. No. What he needed was to get home, and proclaim the danger the whole way! He felt too sick to eat, and his neck burned. He couldn’t stop shaking from exhaustion and worse. His vision was blurry as he almost collapsed yet again when he finally caught sight of a pub that seemed to take people in for the night. 

He had to stop, because the sun was going down. He couldn’t trust anyone because of it, he felt. Then, traitorous thoughts struck him, almost too fast to acknowledge or focus on, since they were so scattered. He wondered if the gold allowed others to track him. He wondered if the Count could see him through it.

It was madness, wasn’t it? “No, no, no,” Jonathan moaned. In a burst of adrenaline that was becoming all too common, he broke into a maddened dash down the road. He tripped, colliding with the door and pushing himself through it.

Jonathan felt as though he was going to faint as he huddled in the pub’s doorway shivering. Frantically, he wondered how they could all be so calm and drink and cavort and sing when there were demons prowling not so far away.

He couldn’t stay in here. He couldn’t sleep here. He couldn’t close his eyes at all anymore without hearing himself start to scream, but he tamped it down. He just wanted to stay and get warm; that was foolish.

He began pulling all the gold stolen from the Count’s collection from his pockets, even as he collapsed with a groan. He took care not to lose his journal, or reveal its presence. Nobody would take that from him! He began frantically counting it all again on the floor, uncaring of the stares. He cried out, cringing when a man reached over and tried to help him up. Jonathan half crawled to a table, clinging to the wood before he got a better look at him through terrified eyes.

Jonathan shook his head, and realized the man was _breathing_. “You’re not one of them,” he moaned, even as he didn’t realize tears were streaming down his face from too many emotions striking him. It was becoming so commonplace, and only further contributed to his dehydration. There was so much relief and exhaustion and fear warring for dominance that he briefly rocked and tried to console himself. 

He then made to stretch his hands out and gather the money closer to himself, lest anyone take it.

An Englishman? Here? And in such a state as this? Quentin could tell when a person was on the brink of insanity after so long at Collinwood. Jenny; Charity; Beth; Edward, though that was unfortunately just a spell. This man was possibly halfway to settling in for a long stay. 

“No, I’m not like ‘them,’” Quentin eventually replied. He couldn’t soothe the man; he didn’t know what was after him, if anything truly was. He was unfamiliar with the local horror stories, or who might be attacking an Englishman. Regardless of the pursuers being real or not, the distress truly appeared to be. “Do you need a place to stay?” The man appeared to be struggling just to think.

Jonathan began whispering furtively to himself, about the latest property laws, and older ones he had memorized for his exams. It kept him almost focused, though it was shoddy.

Then, he looked back to the man, knowing that he had asked him a question of vital importance, and felt his control slipping away like smoke. “He is going to drain England dry. Or you. He’ll drain you dry, after me. _He will_. He’s left, though, hasn’t he? You can’t know his horror until you meet him.” 

“You can’t know his horror until he’s touched you,” he continued. Jonathan was panting in horror by the end.That wasn’t answering what was asked. He knew that. Where was he, again? Then, he frowned, puzzled by his own words. “No, _they_ will drain _me_ first, won’t they?” He shakily realized with a horrible laugh.

“Not the strangers. Me, and then the little ones in their quaint burlap sacks, and then…and then...oh, God, I don’t even know what I think anymore,” he wailed, running his filthy fingers through his already messy hair over and over.

“Who are ‘they?’” Quentin cautiously asked. “Again, do you need help?” He enunciated slowly, knowing Jonathan was barely cognizant of his surroundings.

“The pretty ones,” Jonathan softly replied, though his voice shook. “With their wanton ways.” He suddenly studied Quentin, and tried to gather himself to look like the gentleman he was, though he felt adrift and sinking. “I have money,” he whispered. “I—I lost some of it in the forest, but I have money. You can see it, can’t you?” He wondered if he had left a trail. He almost certainly left footprints, though he had splashed in a pond for a while, in the confused hope that he would negate any smell.

Quentin realized the man was possibly lost in his own world again, as he continually stared into space. He moved closer to the man at the bar. “Yes, I can see it. Is it enough?” he asked the innkeeper, after gently taking some from Jonathan. Jonathan appeared to fall into despair, sobbing (still infuriatingly silently, to Quentin; he waited for the second the man would go into an uproar and shriek) beside a stool. 

Quentin soon learned even if the currency were truly gold, it was too much to accept due to potential thieves.

Quentin thought about it. Best to get this man on his way and to whatever help awaited. Perhaps an asylum loomed in his future, but it was better to not be in this place. “I’ll pay for him. Pretend to take his coins, and I’ll borrow a horse. I’ll get him out of here. Do what you will with one coin once I’m gone. Start a bar fight over it if you don’t care for your establishment,” he joked. 

The stony face of the proprietor let him know that the joke was not appreciated.

Quentin looked down when his sleeve was grabbed in a hand that was stronger than he expected. “What’s your name?” Jonathan suddenly whispered, though his voice was shaking. He wasn’t fully listening for any answers.

“Quentin. Can you remember yours?” He wondered.

“Mine, yes. Of course! Yes, Jonathan,” he replied after a long pause. He felt like that vital knowledge could slip away, too. He couldn’t continue to listen for _them_ , if he wanted to talk to anyone. However, he _couldn’t_ stop. He felt overwrought, and grew frightened at imagined things that appeared in the corners. No, the bar and the attaching inn weren’t on fire, and it was not raining blood. “There’s no fire; there’s no blood,” he began to murmur repeatedly. “Do you need to confide in the stars for a map?”

“That’s right,” Quentin warily replied. Did he mean watch the pattern of the stars to find his way, or was he so far gone as to be hearing them? He suspected it was a miscommunication in the man’s fevered state of mind. He noted the man felt too warm when he’d touched his skin, while taking some of those coins. 

“I can’t stay; the wolves are everywhere, and those are real, with the sharp teeth waiting for me,” Jonathan pleaded. “When they howl, the poisonous leeches, the damned ones, they follow! The wine glasses of those laughs tinkle merrily when they get closer.” He struggled to make sense, wide-eyed. He looked out the window, then saw it had been closed and latched. “There’s no rest for me, not here. Especially not when night falls. There will be no rest or safety at night. I need to reach the station,” he moaned. “I don’t even remember where that is! I—I don’t know where I am.”

“All right,” Quentin sighed. Everyone was watching them, thanks to the babbling and weeping, and his general filthy state. In truth, he had considered draping the man across the back of the nearest horse, and sending it away with just Jonathan, to take him wherever the mood sent them. He could leave, and pretend he had never met this man, but Barnabas must be rubbing off on him, even if this one wasn’t family. He swiftly gained permission for the proprietor’s carriage.

This Jonathan was broken or breaking, and something out there could potentially claim him if his ravings leaned towards any solid danger. It was that, or the elements would do the work for the imaginary things, and kill him when the temperature dipped too low. The man had no shoes! His clothing wasn’t fit for a snowstorm with all the tears in it, if such happened! Could he get much further on his own before he died?

“If you promise to stay calm, I’ll take you,” Quentin offered. Of course Jonathan couldn’t stay calm, for reasons all his own, but he could try to gain a promise not to get his throat slit and test the limits of that accursed yet beneficial portrait. “We can outpace your wolves.” He shoved a flask of brandy into Jonathan’s hands; he kept that for emergencies, and was reluctant to be parted from it.

Jonathan almost dropped it, fearing it was something the Count had provided him. Was it Tokay? Was it poison? Would he be drugged, and wake up in the forest or the castle? “No!” He pushed it away weakly, shaking even harder. “Don’t do that to me.” Nothing and nowhere was safe, was it? Even water must be poisoned.

Quentin shrugged, taking a swig from it himself. He regretted that action, only because of the sheer terror on Jonathan’s face. “No baggage? No extra clothes? We’ll move faster that way, won’t we?”

He could have sworn Jonathan hissed ‘he stole all my clothes,’ in impassioned fury when he had his back to him, but that didn’t make sense. Who was this dreaded 'he?' Granted, none of what he was saying was making sense, aside from a need to escape. That, he could understand.

He took Jonathan’s arm, and led him carefully forward. He gave him a shove to get him outside. Jonathan shook like a newborn foal, but was almost too stiff with terror to move well. If they hadn’t reached the carriage as quickly as they had, he was almost of the mind to pick him up and throw Jonathan into it. As it was, he shoved him in the rest of the way once he was up the steps, and closed the door.

Jonathan curled up on the seat; his eyes were bright and feverish as he wrapped his arms around his legs. He remembered the Count’s carriage, and had terrible thoughts overwhelm him before he could push them out. "I beg of you, don't take me back to the castle…not when I’ve come so far," he pleaded. To him, it made more sense to fear the ride than the driver.

“You are going to the station,” Quentin firmly reiterated from where he sat, getting the carriage into motion. “Whatever the voices tell you, you are not staying here...and we are not on fire, Jonathan, and shall not be.” With that, they were off with as much speed as they could manage with four horses.

Jonathan desperately covered his ears; it was a struggle to control himself. He silently wept, as he heard those evil and honey sweet voices begin to entreat him again. He heard something else conjured up by his addled brain, and presumed it must be the tormented victims of those creatures. It hurt to imagine the horrors they had seen in their final moments.

His neck throbbed and burned where those fangs had scratched him; it felt as though it had been branded, so that they could always reach him. His blood seemed to be boiling inside him; it couldn’t be an illusion, of that he was almost certain. There was a pull; there was a sweetness entwined with a vulgarity mingling within him. It was their song; it was their call; it was their lure.

Even as he was taken from them, he wanted to scream to that man to stop the carriage. He wanted to go back, but he had already forgotten his name. He was being torn apart with ideas that couldn’t stem from him. He heard howls growing steadily closer, and the ensuing noises reminded him of his first night careening towards the castle at a breakneck pace. Jonathan couldn’t contain a fervent cry in response as he huddled into a ball. 

_No!_ He didn’t want to be found.

He wanted to go home. All at once, he wanted to take command of this carriage, suddenly sure it wasn’t assistance being provided. Jonathan laughed to himself, because he didn’t know how to react anymore. When he next spoke, he wasn’t even fully certain what he meant or if he was speaking to the driver whose name he had forgotten, or the women, or if something further had happened. “You can’t cross the water; the ocean is too wide for us all to make it to England!”

Jonathan only knew he felt chilled inside.

From his seat, Quentin heard the remark but chose to pay it no mind. So long as Jonathan wasn’t becoming suicidal and flinging himself out as they drove, he could ignore it. The man was simply out of his head if he was babbling about the carriage crossing the ocean. However, he _did_ hear the wolves.

Or he did, until he crossed the next stream. After the splash, he heard an infuriated howl that didn’t follow them for a short while, before more were heard from all around. Each time he crossed a brook, or another stream, it would stop. The animals would grow silent again, and Quentin could only wonder if this was the kind of thing that could drive an Englishman to madness. 

It remained briefly, but eerily, quiet as he pulled into the station.

The horses slowed their pace. Quentin leapt easily from the driver’s seat when the movement ended, and went to the door. He half wondered if he should have kept the whip in his hand, but realized it would only have scared him more. He tried to pull the door open, and for an instant it held fast from within. Had he blocked it and gone out the other side?

At last, with a solid thump, it swung wide and struck the wall. “I was going to jump,” came a quiet voice. “They desired me. I desire them. I’m not supposed to, or I don't think I am,” Jonathan moaned. 

Quentin began to try to ease him out, but it was a difficult job; it would be even worse if he pulled him by the feet. He looked away to reign in his temper; when he looked back, Jonathan’s face was looking upwards at the ceiling, hands clenched as though to concentrate, and he was whispering to himself. He thought it was a plea or a prayer, until he listened carefully.

Quentin soon realized those repetitive words weren’t prayers once they were said louder. Nor were they some strange incantation. They were tax laws! Jonathan was staying rooted in reality—or as close to it as to be reasonably docile and understandable—by reciting laws. There was also a mention of a thing called Carfax in the midst of it, though it was too dull as to fully catch his attentions.

He decided he must be finished now, or not all; he reached out a hand to shake him. In a rush, Jonathan first startled and then moved forward and grasped Quentin’s coat. “But are we there?!”

“We’re here,” Quentin roughly confirmed. “You can let go.” He would throw him to the ground if he had to, the devil with being gentle. He directed his gaze beyond them. “Look for yourself, Jonathan.”

Jonathan’s face grew resolved. “Their poison won’t take me,” he began in a ragged tone. “I’m out, and the castle isn’t here right now. The wheels will take me further…they can’t take me here!”

“That’s right,” Quentin said, though he was mostly humoring him. He guessed Jonathan wasn’t truly hearing him anymore, as the man climbed out. Jonathan began leaning heavily against the side of the carriage, and rummaging through one pocket. Quentin started in surprise as a palm full of Jonathan’s coins struck his chest. “Is that a tip?” He was amused at the very idea, for he didn’t need it.

Jonathan was already moving, though, and didn’t hear him; he darted forward shoving by various people that were only dawdling with luggage. Even without shoes, on the rough and broken stone, he was quick. Once Jonathan truly took in the number of people milling about, and heard the sounds of the train gearing up, a wide grin formed. He was sweaty and pale; shaking and ill, he still moved quickly as he hurried to collect a ticket. 

Jonathan’s eyes never moved from the ticket master, as he quivered with excitement. “Take me to the furthest station,” he begged as he reached for the man’s hands. Without waiting for either a confirmation or a rejection, he flung the last of his coins into the booth. 

He found one more and pressed it desperately into the man’s hands, even as the man pulled back. “Take me away from this cursed spot; from this cursed land; from the shadows that stretch forth to steal a man’s soul; take me to England. I can’t be here anymore. Please. Take me far away from here, where the devil and his merciless children don’t walk freely. Take me to the opposite of this place, where I can live as myself. I _need to go_!”

He looked around, expecting voices to clamor for his attention, or a bat to swoop out of the sky. He cried out upon being touched by someone only endeavoring to soothe him, and began looking down for any wounds. There were none; the tickets had been shoved into his hands. Even so, all around he was beginning to see blue flames and blood dripping across the tracks. He shook his head.

“Get onboard,” the ticket master instructed him when he saw the delay in Jonathan’s movements. He was confused by the foreigner’s actions, even as he flagged down another officer to follow the man. 

Jonathan stared down at the tickets as though half asleep. Couldn’t that man see the danger that loomed ever closer? “England,” he insisted in giddy relief. The words were wrong on the ticket; surely the typed destination was a simple misprint from a distracted mind, and it was all in order. Surely it was going to where Mina was. Yes, he was bound for England! Perhaps he would find Mina still on holiday!

“I will be far from the wretched devils, yes!” He had a moment of clarity, then, and shuddered. Someone had helped him; yes, he had to be civil, if they were still around. He also wanted to run on ahead. As a compromise, he looked back over his shoulder and with wide eyes that gleamed with tears and a simmering fever; he screamed out the only word he could, even as he jumped aboard, and held up the ticket. ”England!” 

Quentin raised a brow, and just hoped Jonathan could make it. He didn’t like the sound of the brittle and hysterical laughter that erupted from him after he’d shouted out the name. “Where does the train actually go?” He asked a second officer, even as the first presumably made to help Jonathan to his seat, away from the rest of the civilized people. It was certainly a delusion to believe it was destined for anywhere approaching England.

“As far as Bucharest,” the man informed him as the throng of people blocked their view of the train once more. The crowds that had parted for the maddened Englishman were returning to their previous activities. “They can take him, once we wire ahead for someplace suitable for his illness.”

“Good,” Quentin grimly replied. 

Would that train reach its destination before Jonathan lost whatever had kept him focused? Would he ever truly reach home, or would he be locked away in a straitjacket for the remainder of his days? 

He suspected he would never know.


	2. Chapter 2

Jonathan entered The Crown; the pub was quite cozy and intimate, but with a regal air about it. It was in a part of town that was more Arthur’s class than his own humble station, but it was still where he intended to meet with Arthur and Seward for a session of catching up on matters both personal and not. Checking his fob watch upon not immediately seeing them, he realized that the carriage had astoundingly left him just a bit over one hour early.

He smiled, for the promptness was marvelous and something he had to tell Mina about. It was better than a new train schedule. He realized that she would love it if he memorized the man’s name, and then recounted it to her; so would he, for he might send a card and a tidy sum as a tip. Jonathan turned, stepping outside to see about catching him. Unfortunately, he was already rounding the corner at a good clip, even as he waved his hands in the futile effort to catch the man’s attention.

It felt boorish not to leave a tip; he simply must! This had the additional misfortune of him not paying attention to his surroundings, and thereby causing him to collide with another man. In return, Jonathan bounced off, falling onto the cobblestones at the stranger’s feet, while he, in turn, ricocheted off a wall.

It took a moment get his bearings, but soon enough Quentin recognized the man on the ground even as he offered him a hand back up. However, he could see that Jonathan didn’t seem to know him. Just based on the reticence and confusion, it was evident. Perhaps he could jog the man’s memory. Given the fact that Jonathan was cleaner, calmer, and better dressed these days, he had to assume the cause of his hysteria was a distant memory.

Jonathan grimaced, both in embarrassment as well as the expected bruising to his ego, as well as his posterior. Once he caught his breath, he shook his head. He wasn’t really looking at him yet as he began to speak. “My apologies, sir; I only desired to thank my driver. I hope I did you no undue injury.” He was glad Mina wasn’t here to see this, for she would have fretted over him. 

“Jonathan Harker,” he softly added in introduction when he felt it was the only thing left to do. The man had crouched beside him. “Solicitor,” he awkwardly added as the man continued watching him. There was a familiarity to him that put him off. 

“Quentin Collins,” the other man finally said with a smile. He waited to see if the name meant anything to him. It didn’t, so he stretched out a hand to aid him in standing. “Just a wandering Collins.”

Jonathan began to move to accept the hand, when he spotted blood on the man’s wrist. There was a gruesome scrape to it. He had to apologize. Jonathan suddenly stopped after rising to his feet; then, he shook his head with uncertainty; first he began moving too close against his best intentions, then backwards until he bumped the wall himself, and then closer again with something akin to wonder. It was as though he believed him to be a phantasm and not real, and was unable to process that. “I feel as though we have met before. I—I should know you.” Or perhaps it was just a trick his mind played from time to time. 

It felt eerily like when he had seen the Count grown younger, though. Perhaps it was due to the blood he had seen, for occasionally such things did throw him badly. His next words died away as he watched the horrid scrape healing on the other man before his very eyes. “You…”

Jonathan turned his eyes upwards to the sky. The sun was out. He prayed it wasn’t happening again. He looked around, and didn’t see anything that looked unholy surrounding him, though panic did begin to creep into his soul. Jonathan frowned, puzzled just enough that he found he had to speak his mind, even as he withdrew his hand. “You aren’t a vampire?” he weakly asked. 

He was half worried that Mina would lose track of him, and that he would never be found again in her lifetime, much less being taken care of in a convent. However, this man did not have fangs or red eyes. There was no reason to be afraid, his instincts told him.

“You’ve met one, I suppose?” Quentin asked, not looking entirely shocked by that idea. “Outside of Collinsport, here in England?” When Jonathan carefully and solemnly nodded, Quentin had further questions. “Was his name Barnabas, by any chance?”

Jonathan felt he had to have misheard the muttered words that came after that, which sounded like ‘the damn man won’t stay chained til his own time!’ He chose to pay that no mind, instead answering the rest. “Yes,” Jonathan stammered. “I mean, no. His name wasn’t Barnabas, but yes, I have met several.”

There was _another_? Must he warn Van Helsing? Then, he thought. “I have never been to Collinsport, Mr. Collins. Is it in America?” He supposed it must be, by the man’s inflections.

“Maine,” Quentin revealed. “By your face, you need a drink before we trade tales,” he noted as he clapped a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. He was pleased that Jonathan was a bit more on the stable side these days. Perhaps he could learn what had befallen him.

“Do you recall being lost in the wilderness?” Quentin wondered now. “Do you remember enlisting aid in reaching a train station?” Carefully, he continued. “You weren’t in the most coherent of states.”

“Vaguely,” Jonathan replied slowly. His discomfort with the topic was evident. “It is quite scattered, but we cannot speak of that or the other outside!” He was desperate to know more about this man, and what he truly knew. He thought for a moment. “I have friends due to meet with me. We can drink, and speak in there before they arrive if you truly do know me.”

”Someone or something had frightened you,” Quentin added. He readily accepted the offer of a drink.

“Where?” Jonathan abruptly inquired as he put a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “I need to know you are not trying to lie to me. Where do you believe that you discovered me?” He meant no offense, and was pleased to see that none was taken. 

“Klausenburg,” Quentin intoned. 

Jonathan’s hand fell to his side again; he swallowed, recalling what Mina had said, and what the good sisters at the convent had divulged, in comparison to the brittle terror and mist that still surrounded the time following his escape. He didn’t like to think about it, but continually found he must. There were always reminders. “I believe you,” Jonathan hoarsely declared.

Distracted, Jonathan tried to piece together fragmented memories. He came back to himself, when he was pushed unceremoniously into a chair, and a drink was forcefully placed into his hands. He didn’t even notice they had gone inside. Jonathan shot the man a watery smile. The piercing stare that seemed to be determining his wellness also forced him to speak. “Do I look so terrible?”

“You were a bit too pale out there,” Quentin admitted. In truth, he thought he was looking as bereft and traumatized as the first time he’d met him, even though he wasn’t behaving in that manner. “I feared you would collapse into a faint right there in the street, and be run over by a carriage,” he lied. He would have dragged him out of the street first.

“I had a shock,” Jonathan confessed. He had a lingering impression of a carriage in another place. Once he finished his first drink, he took a slow, shaky, but eventually calming breath. “I thought you had to be wrong.” He looked back at him. “I was in a terrible place then, metaphorically and literally. I suffered a mental blow, which rocked my sensibilities to the core. I believed everything I saw and everyone I met could not possibly be real or safe.”

“That was evident,” Quentin granted. At the very least, that something had sickened the man. He chose to wait until Jonathan was steadier, and had a bit of color in his cheeks. “You spoke as though I was privy to your plight and understood the course of your thoughts.”

“I can’t remember that part, but I do know that my demeanor was violently demanding and scattered,” Jonathan explained. “I don’t recall much from my time in hospital. There are flashes. I saw Sister Agatha’s letter to Mina, so I know of my resulting behavior. I…I do recall weeping in a corner. Somewhere.” 

He shook his head, unable to truly put the feelings into words. “I could see seconds of being lost in the woods, and swirling moments of lucidity with the sisters, before I managed to come out of it. A bit more than that, sometimes, but it’s never made any sense!” 

It made his head throb to think too hard of certain matters; Seward had once advised him it was his mind’s way of protecting itself. The blockage was necessary to his healing, until he was ready. The castle was easier to recall than the time between Jonathan’s escape and his eventual recovery. He strained to recollect anything, and came up with a chipped wall of blankness at first, aside from one or two frantic thoughts.

Jonathan felt it improper to not wait for the others prior to ordering, but the deed had been done, and the conversation was underway. “I have friends on the way,” he warned for a second time.

Quentin shrugged easily. “You have the taste of a Collins,” he declared in amusement as Jonathan eagerly poured another glass despite his words. With that, he led the hesitant man to the back of the pub. There was more privacy. “We have time before they interrupt, I trust?”

“Fifty-five minutes, when I last looked,” Jonathan noted. “You perhaps know more of me than I of you, I feel.” He was more than a bit uneasy. “I trust you do not wish to purchase an abandoned estate anytime soon?” It wasn’t really a joke, he found. He did wonder about the situation, before courage returned. Leaning forward, he made certain his tone was quiet enough that nobody would overhear when he spoke.

“What manner of creature are you, Mr. Collins? Is—is this your true shape? Or are you merely in the semblance of a man on this day, and you take another monstrous shape by night, as the sun and moon see fit, with some form of cursed hunger or thirst?” He and Mina had read more tales than simple vampires, in the aftermath of their experiences. Something like the one before him, who healed at an unnatural pace…what the devil was he?! 

He was adrift in a sea of wonders again, and didn’t particularly care to revisit that feeling.

Quentin’s eyes widened. “You’re being dramatic, but you’re closer to the truth than you know,” he admitted. Before Jonathan could ask a second time, he continued. “I am as human as you are, though I’ll live longer. There is Immortality due to…extenuating circumstances, which broke the curse of the full moon. Something else takes on my injuries.” He would not allude to the painting more than that.

“So this focus took on the injury I inadvertently caused,” Jonathan marveled as two more bottles of brandy, and two glasses were left at the table. Surely they wouldn’t need so much? “Somewhere, something else bleeds? Again, my apologies.” He offered his cufflink for the task of covering the stain of blood, so that he would not be exposed. When it was dismissed, Jonathan quietly put it back on.

“Since we’re exchanging tales, what are _you_ and what do you recall of when I found you? You’re certainly not a merman,” Quentin mused ridiculously to lighten the mood, before his concern got the better of him. "And were you bitten yourself, by what you sought to escape?" He asked in a darker tone. He hadn't seen anything.

Jonathan smiled slightly at the strange humor, and shook his head. “I am a simple solicitor who lived through a few extraordinary events, which left their mark on me.” In regards to being bitten, he shook his head. “Rather, there was a scrape, and they were not able to sup from me. There were…three women, who must have certainly been hapless maidens all in another life…until the Count sank his fangs into them. I—I don’t know how old they were.”

That had bothered him at the time, and it still did. He never could understand why he fixated on that aspect of their unholy nature, and whether they went willingly into the shadows. Was it just pity? Or was it a residual allure?

Jonathan sighed. “The fair lady…for a time I thought that she had, truly, bitten me. I felt something was there, but it was a festering delusion. I procured access to a mirror upon my recovery. There’s a line; a barely noticeable scar. I was _almost_ bitten, but she did not have a chance to truly bite and _feed_ , before my escape.”

Quentin nodded, smirking. “Your hair is the more apparent of those marks.” It was changed drastically from when he had seen him the first time. “It suits you.”

“Thank you,” Jonathan wryly retorted. “Multiple things caused that, though the castle had the largest piece,” he admitted. Perhaps more brandy was required before he could speak further. “I was ready to bring him to England upon closing a deal. I procured a house for him. I was foolish to sleep where I was barred, and could very well have become like them if I were not spared. There—there was no exchange of blood, so my fate remained my own.”

Quentin noticed the faraway look in Jonathan’s eyes, before an apologetic expression was turned his way. “Somehow, you survived. Even without me.” He was fascinated.

“And escaped,” Jonathan noted redundantly. “And met you, as you say, despite a total lack of recollection until you threw that name at me. I was only told after the fact of particular actions of mine at a train station, though I suspect something was left out. In all honesty, my memories went from escaping into the forest, to being on the train, frightened and lost, to—to, well, when I was in the convent. Six weeks had passed.”

He disliked discussing such a terrible lapse in sanity. “The good sisters eventually pieced together where I was from, when I was coherent at last.” Softly, he added, “I married Mina there, so there was a glimmer of happiness in the fear.”

Quentin was impressed, although he had calculated the time spent convalescing vs. the time the vampire would have had free to roam abroad. “Six weeks? Your Count beat you to England.”

“There were certain events I missed,” Jonathan confirmed as he peered into his glass. “A good friend of my wife’s passed, and returned and was—made to pass again from this life with great speed.” He started when Quentin suddenly moved and refilled the glass. “Our little band of people fought him. We also compiled our diaries and journals, though I haven’t that on my person.”

“You wouldn’t have room for money,” Quentin smiled. At the look of genuine concern as Jonathan’s eyes went to the libations, Quentin shook his head. “I’m paying. I was in the mood for a decanter before we crashed into each other’s lives again. Save yours for your friends.” He had consulted the clock. There was enough time left. “That’s _your_ tale, but that’s not about the matter of what you recall of the forest.”

Yes, he had been avoiding trying to think too much about it. He mentally praised Quentin for his bluntness; if he didn’t plow through, he would still avoid it. “I was being chased,” Jonathan slowly began again. “It felt like I was the only sane one left, when I was not; I seemed to be at the edges of creation as the sky fell apart. The creatures were looming behind the whispers in the cold night air,” Jonathan slowly explained as he remembered.

“I was hunted by the three each night. I can remember it; they sought to keep me,” he murmured. 

His voice was shaking, as he recalled the terror. Perhaps he had been dreaming of this all along, but the memory was suppressed. There was always some fractured thought in his darkest nightmares, which never fully surfaced. “I was the one falling to bits, evidently. I longed to find some point of surety. Did I really mention a map of the stars?” Jonathan shook his head, bewildered. The words were crashing back over him. 

When Quentin nodded, Jonathan rubbed his face in embarrassment. “I wanted to sail away, and I knew I needed a map; perhaps I required a compass. I knew sailors found their way with the stars in times long ago. The two became merged. Or perhaps I recalled the Count’s map, with Whitby circled.” 

Those fears of yesteryear had an enigma of missing time which so upset Jonathan. He had been reluctant to tell of such matters continuing to bother him. A knot of tension that had become a silent companion was finally releasing him, as questions were answered and fears from his trials were finally extinguished.

The fire and blood of memory were swiftly stoked, as a missing puzzle piece was reclaimed for Jonathan.

“By the time I returned to myself,” Jonathan sighed in relief, once he felt steady enough to go on. “I could scarcely remember what had become of me. As I said, it was six weeks in that state. I was a wreck. I did recall brief snatches of time when I must have just been attempting to survive. I remembered a dark haired man for a few minutes, and trees passing by quickly, but I supposed it was a dream or a nightmare, or reality merging with fantasy. You have solved a mystery for me.” 

He almost choked up at a dark chapter being fully and irrevocably closed to him, before the worst of it passed. Very seriously, he gazed at Quentin. “Thank you. I would never have survived without you.” As the silence became uncomfortable, Jonathan managed to pull himself together. “What of your story, sir? I don’t need to know of your item that contains your pains and youth, but I—I have laid bare a portion of my own past, and have a vague glimmer of your own.” he wondered. He was very curious, and the brandy made him brave enough to try.

That was a tale to fill the time. Quentin had his own drink to ready himself, because he was thirsty more than reluctant. He provided an abridged version, because otherwise it would be far too ridiculous, and take far too long a time to explain to anyone. What he did tell of his time in Collinwood involved Trask, Count Petofi, and a passing mention of I-Ching, so that he could better explain how a vampire cousin from the future came to help by way of the past, though he was still and again chained in his coffin. 

He left out his many lovers and the mention of supposedly being a ghost in the aforementioned future, based on Barnabas’ comments; he left out Angelique, though he gave enough of an explanation of his werewolf curse and Magda so as to be understood. When he reached the end, he took in Jonathan’s response.

Very slowly, in baffled wonder, Jonathan peered into his glass. Then, swiftly, he drank it all in one gulp and refilled the glass with a cough. His head greatly ached from all the knowledge. “Have you no lighter times?” he wondered in awe. His own life was inconsequential in comparison with such events!

“Oh, but I do, Jonathan Harker,” Quentin replied with a glint in his eyes. For five minutes he regaled Jonathan with the tale of Pansy Faye inside Charity Trask, and her little song and dance number, just to give Jonathan some relief from the tension.

Jonathan laughed, startled by the mental image. He struggled to contain a longer laugh when Quentin quietly sang it off key for his entertainment, in a terrible Cockney imitation. His needing to chortle or even _giggle_ must be the brandy, he decided. It would surely be scandalous to find humor in such a sorry state cast over a woman, though she had reportedly embraced it by Quentin’s words. He chose his next ones carefully, for he realized yes, the brandy was working quite well.

“H-how often did she do this? Did she never return to the minister’s daughter?” If it made her—or them, really, for weren’t there two souls inside that body?—happy, then it was only proper that someone hide her somewhere lest she be placed into an asylum. It was certainly scandalous behavior. The Professor would have likely fought for her soul whether she liked it or not, he slowly realized.

“All the time,” Quentin smiled. He didn’t tell him of when she wanted him dead, for such knowledge wasn’t necessary in Jonathan’s case. “She is probably singing still. No, she never became Charity Trask again when I was there.”

Jonathan was choosing to ignore the worst of the tale, though now he found he could only dwell on one fact. “Your cousin wasn’t evil, Quentin?” 

It all came down to this question.

“All vampires might be in some way or another,” Quentin granted. “He was good to the family, and to me. Or…he will be, I suppose is the better way to say that.” He wasn’t drunk enough for thoughts of I-Ching through time. He would never be drunk enough to disclose Barnabas’ whereabouts in the hidden room in the crypt. “Why?” He saw Jonathan’s dread and worry, and sighed. “I think Collinwood’s sort is a different vintage. Like wine has more than one taste.”

Even if he wasn’t certain, it was an easy lie.

“Of course,” Jonathan whispered. He wasn’t certain he believed him, and he hoped that was true. Finally, quietly, since he trusted this man—for he had known him at his worst, as he fell into the grips of brain fever, for whatever he could or could not recall, and he had stated some of his fears—he explained a portion of what events had occurred on the night of October the 3rd. It was a date which was forever seared into his mind. 

It was a date he would remember to his grave. He told Quentin of Renfield; of Mina; of himself, forced to slumber while his wife was attacked; he told him of the blood exchange, and the terror which followed. When he finished, he found he almost couldn’t ask what he truly wanted, but forced himself at length. “Such things did not occur at your estate when your vampire roamed? He did not do something like this in your family?” His words had a tinge of desperation.

He had to be sure. If he wasn’t sure, the Professor might be told. No, not might. He _would_ be told.

“No,” Quentin firmly replied, once he recovered from the horror. “God, no!” Or so he assumed was the case, at least in this century. He could understand Jonathan’s misgivings. 

Jonathan quietly nodded. Finally, he met Quentin’s eyes. “Then…by my eternal soul, I swear that I will never breathe a word of _your_ vampire to _my_ Professor Van Helsing, or the friends who await me.” Jonathan was firm on that point. His face was serious; despite the expected inebriation, his tone was sober and resolved. “Or your secret, Mr. Collins.”

“I never thought you would, Mr. Harker. Not after what you’ve revealed of yourself today,” Quentin replied. “More?” He held up the decanter, inviting him to take further sustenance from it.

“Jonathan,” he teased with a relieved smile as the mood passed away. “Please, only a bit,” he requested, even as the glass was filled to the top. He sighed, hoping he wasn’t too far gone by the time his friends arrived. They had seen him at his worst emotional states, and therefore he doubted they would judge.

“Quentin,” the other man corrected with equal humor. He knew that Jonathan seemed to have an odd fixation with politeness, and expected him to slip back into the whole Mr. Collins act. He squeezed his hand fleetingly when the glass was filled. “How is your Mina? If that’s not too personal a question, in light of the revelations today.” While alcohol had helped with discussing histories, there might be limits.

“She is well, even if we both have our moments,” Jonathan chuckled. She had her nightmares, just as he had his. They were happy, despite all the devilish things which had been thrown in their path.

“But tell me something. What did you think was occurring, if you didn’t believe my manic words, and didn’t think what pursued me was real?” Jonathan wondered. And while he wondered why Quentin was cursed into being a werewolf in the first place, some of his descriptions had answered a modicum of that for him. It was too sensitive a topic to broach.

“I knew you were being haunted to madness, but not by a ghost or action of your own. I couldn’t be certain of the presence of vampires,” Quentin acknowledged. “I only saw those scratches on your neck, and no punctures.”

He shrugged. “If something evil was hunting you, and draining your energy from you, there had to be some spell or curse at work, if it wasn’t the work of vampires. I’ve been influenced into death and back into life in a myriad of ways, and if you didn’t deserve to be damned, Jonathan...and if you weren’t in a fit state to explain yourself, then I felt you should have a fighting chance to strike back at your foes.”

“I did,” Jonathan gratefully replied. “And I hope that I am stronger for it.”

“You’re lucky, Jonathan,” Quentin praised with hooded eyes, before he leaned back in his chair. “Had you run into me prior to the curse, I would have said you had read far too many penny dreadfuls, despite my own dabbling. I may have put you into an asylum myself, and forgotten you ever existed.” He shook his head and took another drink.

My, how he had grown, he sarcastically marveled at himself. He looked back to the other man. “I might have even tied you up like a lamb for the slaughter in some small clearing in those woods. Yes, I believe that had you met me prior to my turnaround, I would have aided those women quite happily, in lieu of some manner of reward or protection from them. I may have ignored them shedding your blood, and merely turned away.”

He had ruined people before, after all. What would have been one more life?

Quentin’s smile was all teeth for a flash, and then it was gone. He was fascinated by the very thought of what he might have wrought upon this man back then. He understood Jonathan’s likely consternation, though was pleased that he didn’t leave. He saw how wide eyed Jonathan became, and shrugged. “I have endured my own curse, and therefore couldn’t turn you away or do that when I didn’t know the plight.”

“I am glad I didn’t pass my exams sooner, and didn’t cross paths with you, then,” Jonathan said weakly after contemplating such a thing. He said it more to himself than to Quentin. 

“Oh, Jonathan. I am not the simple Good Samaritan, whatever you had hoped,” Quentin chuckled. “From what I’ve stated of my history, you should understand that. Nor am I the custodian of the righteous and just. I’m not that kind of blackguard anymore, either.”

Jonathan easily saw through the act, despite how he felt. “I can’t see you waylaying anyone in a darkened alleyway with a dagger without just cause…or abandoning me to them,” he pointed out. “Not now. Or without your curse engaging and altering your very nature to attack in other methods.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment to my roguish good looks,” Quentin said with a laugh. Jonathan chuckled himself after a moment of hesitation. He wanted Jonathan to understand exactly what the curse entailed, so he would understand what had made him different.

“There were many dawns when I awoke covered in my own blood, with no memory of events,” he brusquely added. “Be thankful I was not in the great city of London when I felt those first pangs of lycanthropy.”

“I am,” Jonathan solemnly and softly replied. He couldn’t imagine it. However, he did desire to borrow some of Van Helsing’s books to learn if there were others suffering such a sad affliction. There must be, though. For hadn’t the peasants had words that were interchangeable between that state, and vampire?

He couldn’t do anything to help anyone of that sort, but if he at least knew how to identify them as a pack or individuals, couldn’t he at least offer a place of safety if they were willing? He winced, knowing that was a foolish idea. Or he could keep his own family safe, and learn of a ward or protection to drive one away, should his family be threatened. Something as common as garlic worked on vampires, after all.

Though his thoughts were obviously a bit confused from all the brandy, Jonathan still made a mental note to come up with a very good and foolproof reason for his interest, so that Van Helsing wouldn’t learn of Quentin’s current and previous state from him.

Ah, he reasoned. There was the excuse of the peasants that he had pondered before. It was only a study of the origin of the words like Vrolok, he could say. There was no harm there, and everyone knew of his studious nature. He had his plan, and imbibed just a smidgen more in quiet celebration. Then, he began to study the empty glass, and contemplate his future. 

With a tongue truly loosened by the flowing brandy, Jonathan leaned forward and with a glint of glee restored in his eyes, he told Quentin another secret. “You asked about Mina, and I wasn’t sure if I should say, but…I am telling them when they come. She is with child.” He leaned back into his chair, and covered his mouth, wondering if perhaps he had said too much. It was too late to take it back, so he couldn’t be too sorry. He shook his head with a sigh, looking down. He needed to get his focus back. 

He wasn’t used to drinking, and didn’t want to fall about awkwardly like a puppet cut from its strings. While the quantity was not much for some, it was sufficient to stupefy a studious solicitor.

“Congratulations,” Quentin praised. He could see when a man had had enough to drink, and the time perhaps was here. Jonathan was too quiet for a moment, and then said something that Quentin had to strain to hear.

When Jonathan finally began to mutter a bit louder about property and ill-fated tax loopholes of the past, as well as their changes over the years while rubbing his eyes, Quentin knew he was right to cease to refill his glass. He wondered if Jonathan remembered how he’d kept himself steady with those same words, or similar ones. It couldn’t be the same laws, could it? He doubted it, especially with the embarrassed expression that crossed over his face, when he finally tapped his arm. 

It only made sense if those matters were a solicitor’s bread and butter.

Jonathan blinked blearily and then shook his head apologetically. He realized what he was doing, too, and was puzzled momentarily. “It…was how I stayed awake for so long in the forest, as I lost my mind. I can recall this now, because of you. Such babble returns from time to time, and I always wondered the point of origin.” 

Now he knew; it was simply an odd little holdover from that dark time. “You narrowly missed hearing me spout it as though reciting it for an exam, I presume. I also almost descended into words I picked up from the villagers near the castle, because I was turning over everything in my head just then. I’m trying to recall several of those words, for my own reasons,” he politely apologized. He focused all his willpower on not slurring.

At least, he hoped he had recited such to keep his focus back in the forest during that period of time; for all he knew, he very well could have been crying about blood and poison and demons by that point, and never would have known the difference between what he dreamed up in his mind and what was spoken by his mouth. That was disturbing for him. “It now appears to return when I drink. I was unaware of that, for Mina hasn’t mentioned it.” It did explain Mina’s sweet and tolerant look the one time he had spent a bit too much time celebrating on their anniversary.

He had thought he was discussing her beauty. Had he been recalling the texts he had read? Or had he been discussing the beauty of the law? Oh, Lord, he was going to have to ask her. She wouldn’t mind, of course.

He wondered if he had ever done that in front of anyone else.

Quentin leaned closer, then, and grabbed Jonathan’s arm. “I believe your friends have arrived. They’re looking this way, so I believe I will take my leave of you now.” Actually, it appeared only one was just now entering, while another rose to reunite with him. 

How had that one entered so quietly? Quentin hadn’t seen him come in.

Jonathan hurried to draw out his wallet—well, as fast as he could, for he fumbled and nearly dropped it in both his haste and drunkenness. “My card,” Jonathan offered once he’d righted everything. “If you return to town in my lifetime, I feel that Mina would like to meet you. I would like to speak again,” he murmured in his ear. “If you need someone that knows and has not judged you and will never do so, well…I am in Exeter. I—I will do whatever I can.”

“To your family being free of vampires,” Quentin toasted him, and pocketed the card. He had had far more on his worst days and was fine in comparison. There was more than enough brandy left in those bottles for Jonathan’s friends. “I might take you up on that in a year or five.” Once Jonathan had had the proper time to survive a child’s first few years.

As he left, he caught a look directed his way from one of the two men. He wasn’t sure if this was the fabled Dr. Seward, or Lord Godalming. “Take care of him. I gave him a head start that you’ll never rival,” he said in a jovial tone.

Confused, Seward didn’t know how to reply as he moved to Jonathan’s table. 

“Jack! Have I ever chanted tax law terminology or murmured of real estate transactions to keep myself focused when I am out of sorts and within earshot of you?” Jonathan asked strangely and carefully when he saw his arrival. “It has been brought to my attention, you see.”

“No,” Seward admitted with a puzzled smile. “In my hearing, it was the time table for the furthest train station, so that you wouldn’t forget it before you could inform Mina. I heard tax laws on the train, when you spoke in your sleep. Not when you were drunk. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

That was the last thing Quentin heard as he ducked out the door.

“Arthur,” Jonathan greeted. “Come here!”  
\--

Shortly after Quentin escaped into the chilly afternoon, he felt as though he was being watched. The snow was just beginning to fall once again. He had to guess which man was which, as he had not heard their names being spoke while he remained inside. He wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and raised a brow. “I presume you’re not Jonathan’s Dr. Seward?”

Arthur approached, and Quentin wondered what the matter could be. Had Jonathan proven so inebriated that he couldn’t keep Quentin’s secret after all? 

He inclined his head to acknowledge that Quentin was correct. “Lord Godalming,” Arthur said by way of introduction. He hesitated, and finally told his preferred name, since no matter how much time passed, it would always feel like someone was addressing his father when it came to that title. “Arthur. I…arrived earlier than Jack, and opted to wait in the shadows while you concluded plying Jonathan with wine. They agreed to remain at his table until I returned.”

“Brandy,” Quentin drawled. There was a stark difference in the taste. He could see how Arthur did not approve, though he didn’t much care. For all he knew, he was being accused of corrupting the man.

Arthur nodded. “It was difficult to tell from there. I passed the table, just out of his viewing, and listened to some of your talk.” After stalking Dracula across Europe with the others, he had learned a thing or two about subterfuge. He only had to stick to the shadows, in a corner of the bar, nearest to them. He was surprised the next time he spoke. "It is a rarity to hear Jonathan laughing in delight, but it was refreshing."

“Maybe if you regale him with strange tales where he wasn’t the one being tormented or at risk, and there were no vampires, he might do so more often,” Quentin coolly advised.

“It was mostly business dinners for us, but I do count him among my friends. I saw him pass the card, and wished to say that whatever the circumstances, you can trust him,” Arthur explained. “And, if need be, for the future, I could perhaps, provide you with an extra account of some sort.”

Quentin was taken aback at the offer, though he didn’t show it. “I have funds at present. Thank you.” Then, he shook his head. “That man shouldn’t be as sane as he is. He has nerves of steel to come back from that.”

Arthur could only agree. “When he scaled that wall a second time, the reading of it left us all impressed.” He stopped himself before he could offer him copies of all they had chronicled. He couldn’t do that, unless he had permission from the others. He paused, as though weighing his words carefully. 

“Thank you,” Arthur softly said at length. 

“Whatever for?” Quentin wondered. Those words surprised him.

“He didn’t know I listened,” Arthur explained. “He specifically said to me that you assisted him in reaching the station as his mind collapsed.” Everyone in their little band knew how hard it was for Jonathan to remember that time, and how much it concerned him. The solicitor was terrible at hiding his feelings, whatever he may think about himself and his skills in his profession. “Everyone would be grateful to you, I am certain. You were integral in him getting as far as Budapest,” Arthur acknowledged. 

Indeed, he could only imagine just how many would have been changed into one of those creatures and lost aside from his dear Lucy, without Jonathan’s knowledge and resources when it came to gaining information from the lower classes, and thereby knowing where the boxes of earth were being delivered.

“We would have had a devil of a time without him,” Arthur concluded.

“If he didn’t say more than that, you should go back inside,” Quentin mused. “He has news for you.” He turned away, and then turned back when Arthur strode forward and touched his shoulder. “Yes?”

“Would your opinion be that he was closer to permanently losing his mind…or to being caught and changed? With the little you know of such a state, of course, from his words.” Arthur knew he would understand what he meant. “Jonathan was unclear when he struggled to recall. He won’t speak of it these days, since it’s so hazy. At least, he won’t say a word of it to me, and not to Mina, and never to Jack but for one occasion. I overheard a snippet.”

He supposed that Jonathan would never want to cause further stress or worry to those who had suffered the Count's wrath. While it was admirable to everyone, it was also frustrating.

Quentin thought back. “There _were_ wolves following us, until the carriage crossed a stream, Arthur. And Jonathan _had_ become… _different_ when it came to his hysteria, to the point I was nigh certain he was about to launch himself out of the carriage and join someone. Even if I thought that someone was only in his mind at the time.” He had seen black magic in use at Collinwood. He should have known better. “He was crying about a wound on his throat that burned.”

The howls had grown in volume and duration, from what he recalled. Until that instant in which he had splashed through the water. He had fully expected Jonathan to get himself killed, but hadn’t realized the true extent of it all. “He would have been caught,” Quentin slowly revealed. “I would wager that he believed, in time, that the pursuing wolves were just a delusion of his fevered imagination, from the edges of sanity?”

Arthur quietly nodded. “One of many.”

”Yes. Jonathan was wrong, for I heard them, too. I didn’t hear a woman’s voice out there, only an animal,” Quentin revealed. “I did hear a strange sound, mixed together with the wind. Like water glasses tinkling together.”

”Their laughter,” Arthur whispered in awe. “You heard them, though you knew it not. He and the Professor have both described it in their diaries.”

“Don’t tell Jonathan until you think he’s ready,” Quentin warned. “If you ever feel that way.” That man had pulled himself from the brink admirably. He didn’t want to be the one that potentially caused any further cracks to form. He knew how easily that could happen. 

“He’s had enough bad dreams; based on Mina's polite allusions, he still has his night terrors," Arthur agreed. “I shall leave it be.” He raised a brow, recalling a previous comment. “You said he had news?”

“You mean to say you didn’t catch that as you spied on us? You won’t hear it from me!” Quentin chided in amusement.

Arthur shook his head. “That was one thing of many that I did not pick up for my eavesdropping. I did hear of how you met…and something else.”

Quentin gave him a small shove, and was amused by the bashful confusion that turned to weary annoyance. “Go. Find out! I already know you would quietly see to it that a man of my means was destroyed if I took advantage of Jonathan’s profession or good will.” 

“I won’t tell,” Arthur noted sternly. “Just as Jonathan swore an oath, I do the same.” He was only protective of his friend; if Jonathan found just cause to embrace this man, then so would Arthur. Quentin returned his stare, and he saw the feeling was mutual. 

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Collins,” Arthur formally added as he slowly backed off and quietly returned to the pub.

“And you, Lord Godalming.” With that, Quentin returned to seeking a carriage that could return him to his hotel. 

A passing carriage emerged from the growing snow, slowed, and finally stopped. As he nodded to the man and began to say his destination, celebratory cries reached his ears. 

Yes, Quentin mused with a small smile. Jonathan Harker was in good hands.

_Finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Major thanks to SeanDC for beta reading.


End file.
